


a first (and fierce) affirming sight

by harrietscats



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Force Ghost(s), Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Order 66, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychometry, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23942239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrietscats/pseuds/harrietscats
Summary: There is a list Cal keeps in his head, full of Jedi who he hopes (prays) escaped those final, carnage-filled hours of the Clone Wars. Every year he was on Bracca, the list grew smaller and smaller, until only a handful remained.On Ordo Eris, Cal can finally add the one name he had hated removing.
Relationships: Cal Kestis & Merrin, Cal Kestis/Original Character(s), Cal Kestis/Original Female Character(s), Cal Kestis/Reader, Cere Junda & Cal Kestis, Cere Junda & Original Female Character, Greez Dritus & Cal Kestis, Mantis - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	a first (and fierce) affirming sight

It was a dream. It had to be, Cal thought dazedly as three blades of light met in a spectacular display of lavender leavings. The impact jarred his sprained wrist, vibrated up the aching bones of his arm, until his teeth shivered painfully. For a moment—a brief, peaceful moment—past and present bled together into a timeless space.

This was the true curse of precognition, he knew, feeling hard ground give way to the springy mats of the Temple’s training salles, and back again. Becoming lost in the pull of the past. Cal had been on the receiving end of _that_ lecture more times than he could count. And the ghosts were hungry today, batting away at his attention like tooka kittens to string. Somewhere within him, a memory tried its hardest to unlock itself from the holocron he had constructed around The Before.

(Because that’s all he can bring himself to call it. The Before. An ephemeral, almost innocent name for his childhood and a majority of his adolescence, whose presence only brings him pain now.)

So he took a two-step backwards. Disengaged. As if finishing an abandoned movement to a dance, a powerful pink blade appeared where his belly had been moments before. _Too close_. From his perch on his shoulder, BD-1 warbled an apology in Binary. Cal winced as his fatigued brain offered translation, as scattered as it was:

_They took my stims. I’m sorry._

“Don’t worry about it, buddy,” Cal muttered, exhaling sharply as he dove into a forward roll, shoulder taking the brunt of his weight as he came upright. Remembering a half-forgotten cadence, he thrust his hand outward, finished the movement with a painful, Force-borne shove. A cry of surprise was his only clue that he had stumbled his opponent with his push. He didn't voice his private thoughts, borne on the end of an exhausted mental probe he threw in his opponent’s direction. When it dissipated against that fragmenting, durasteel wall of _terror_ and _pain_ and _sorrow_ , he didn't curse.

(Even if he desperately wanted to.)

His opponent was still floundering, perhaps a sign that she was finally, _blessedly_ (thank the Force for small mercies) exhausting herself. This gave Cal a moment to compose himself. Draw from the wellspring of the Force and smother the arguments his body was raising.

And they are many.

He is exhausted in a way that makes him afraid of the moment when their duel is over. The bass line of the music playing throughout the gladiatorial arena has long since worsened the post-electrostaff headache into a positively ghastly migraine. The dance his opponent is leading him in—making him give up more and more of that spun-up asteroid/Galatenan reed mat ground—has his stomach doing uncomfortable flips as his mind fights against the seductive pull of the past. He is bruised, covered in the blood and leavings of a dozen different creatures.

And yet…

A sense of _relief_ so profound filled his breast. Of _joy_. In any other circumstance, he would be beside himself with the strange sensation of something _warm_ in his chest that balks at raising his lightsaber against hers.

Even if she does not recognize him.

( _Especially_ because she does not recognize him.)

_But... if I can’t get through to her_ , Cal thought, _I won’t need those stims anyway._ Because without stims, without a prayer of a plan, this was how Cal Kestis—survivor of the Purge, _Jedi Padawan_ —would die.

Cal knew (hoped?) that he was still in that stinking, rat infested cell he had first woken up in. He knew (hoped?) that Beedee was rusting in the dark rivers of Kashyyyk, or worse. Because this was a _dream_. Cal could create stims, wish away his aches and pains, choose a combatant of his choice in this sheltered corner of his damaged psyche.

One whose face made his heart hurt less.

But some sane part of him, untouched by sedation and fatigue and hurt, knew that this wasn't a dream. Knew that the Haxion Brood has pitted him against the only combatant in the galaxy who posed a threat to him:

Another Jedi.

No.

A _friend_.

The blue blade of his lightsaber came down with all his might upon the crossed blades of his opponent—his _friend_. She had drawn them close ( _Too close_ , Cal mused as the impact jarred his bones again, made his headache worse), held her lightsabers before her in an ‘X’, which shadowed her aristocratic jawline and sunken cheekbones in something resembling a healthy glow.

Half a decade had changed him, but she had remained untouched by the passing years. But if Cal can call the last five years “easy”, it is clear that his friend did not have such a luxury. Her blue hair is lank. Wild. Untamed. Her sunset eyes are feral discs of pink that look almost red in this light.

They showcase no recognition, even as Cal called her name again.

He’s certain that this is no case of mistaken identity. There are a few new scars, and she wore the filthy remains of foreign, official-looking robes instead of her impeccable tunics and wrapped belts of The Before, but Athanyal Hu is someone Cal would never forget.

(Now, if only he can get her to see reason.)

It had begun so innocently, if one could call anything about this, “innocent”. The heavy thrum of the music he used to listen to while breaking down derelicts on Bracca (for he swore to remove the band’s existence from his personal ’Net playlist), combined with the roar of the crowd, the dying cries of the feral oggdo he had gutted, and the pounding of his own head created a cacophony like no other. It was a deafening thing, leaving him at the mercy of the poisonous, unJedi sensation sitting in his chest like a coiled snake.

But for now it lay buried.

Tamed.

Secured.

Above his head, the larger-than-life holoprojection of Cal’s crime-lord kidnapper stretched out his arms, pontificating to his crazed church of fanatics.

“What. A. Show!” exploded Sorc Tormo.

Cal tilted his head upward further to regard the shimmering figure of the Umbaran. The blue cast from the holoprojector only served to make the bluish skin of the crime lord even more striking, and his colorless eyes even eerier. Clad in regalia that reminded Cal vaguely of Count Dooku’s vestments and costumes, and smiling like a predator about to swallow prey, Sorc Tormo did little to hide his lacking sanity.

The snake occupying Cal’s chest hissed with rage at the sight of the Haxion Brood’s boss.

He quickly strangled his anger back into hazy submission.

“The legends really don’t disappoint,” the Umbaran crime lord continued. “These Jedi are unstoppable!”

The word slapped Cal in the face with all the force of two ships colliding in hyperspace. _Legends_. Five years had passed, not five hundred. Every year he was on Bracca, official Imperial channels would report the capture and executions of "fugitive Jedi". Some of the names were unfamiliar, but most were not. And each time a new name reached Bracca, the private list Cal kept alive in his heart lost one more person.

One more _legend_.

Like Athanyal had lectured about to the senior Padawans during the small moments when the High Council remembered the education of their youth. Sometimes, Cal still dreamed of those lessons in that beautiful, enclosed conservatory within the Temple. He remembered how her eyes lit up with pleasure as they translated ancient Jedi epics together. How excited she would get as they delved through the ruins of ageless Jedi Temples that lived on when the Order had been forced to forsake them. Everything Athanyal was, everything she tried her hardest to teach them, was done with the kind of wild abandon only a Padawan raised in the years before the Clone Wars could ever truly know. She taught him the true meaning of the word, “legend”.

Now, if one paid the credits, dug around the ’Net long enough, they could pay to watch those _legends_ die.

(When he had been desperate enough, those first few weeks after he had buried himself in Bracca’s seas, Cal bought a bottle of the disgusting, fermented fungal mash that served as beer on his new Imperial homeworld. Sat somewhere private and damp and watched grainy holo-footage capture those last moments.

_Her_ last moments.

And when Prauf found him—red-faced and crying, gaze fixed on the pixelated death mask of Master Unduli, but not _her_ , never _her_ —the Abednedo only sat beside Cal in companionable silence while he wept.)

Cal’s anger had stirred, righteous and holy as the crime lord continued his homily. Was this all he was to them? Cal thought helplessly, wounds stinging and fatigue dragging him to what constituted “down” on this artificially spun-up asteroid. Entertainment for the criminal underworld, stoking fear that had led to the genocide of his people?

The carnage was clear around him.

The proof.

“How will we ever give our guest the challenge he deserves?”

The snake in his chest hissed. Cal bared his teeth in a snarl and glared at his captor’s larger-than-life holoprojection. From somewhere behind him, Cal heard the hair raising screech of blood-rusted gears opening a blood-rusted door. A tiny well of _fear_ opened in his belly as his mind wandered and Beedee whined.

Far across the arena, the blood-rust of a thousand species cracked like a scab as the door opened to deposit some new creature from Sorc Tormo’s hellish bestiary for Cal to kill.

(Or die by.)

The inside of the cage was as black as night. From its depths, a wave of _terror_ so extreme erupted with such power, the sour taste of adrenaline coated his mouth. Cal felt his grip tighten the slightest on the hilt of his lightsaber, felt his feet shift unconsciously into the starting cadences of Form I: a comfortable reminder of old times. Peaceful times. The Before.

And then the dream began.

With a feral cry that chilled Cal to the bone, Athanyal Hu launched herself from the black and blood-rusted cubicle that had enclosed her. For a stupid, idle moment, Cal felt his heart lighten. Felt the memory ( _salty tears, Prauf beside him, datapad frozen on the terrified visage of her_ ) that caused him so much pain, replacing itself with something better.

Because she was _alive_.

Beedee’s warning wail jerked Cal from dream to reality.

One of Athanyal’s magenta blades striking his shoulder hard enough to part muscle and singe bone finished the transition.

He charged forward, swinging his lightsaber overhand in a feint. With a snarl, Athanyal blocked with one lightsaber, the other darting for his belly. But Cal had anticipated her strike (telegraphed as it was through the Force), and already ducked low beneath both blades. Stalking left to assault an earlier aggravated wound, Cal pressed against those strange, formal dueling pants with his lightsaber, an apology on his tongue.

“I _really_ hope you don’t remember this when we get out of here,” Cal said.

There was no weight behind the blow, but the shock would hopefully break her from this alien hold on her mind. Blue plasma melted fabric, burned skin. Athanyal screamed

_delight and wonderment decorated the air like a sweet-smelling mist. Among the revelers, Cal stood on the observation balcony, between two Padawans he had grown close to during his créche days (and whose names he could no longer recall). There was no embarrassment felt between him and his friends as they watched the tourney with the same wide eyes and whooping cheers as the younglings below. Twilight on Coruscant had forced some unnamed member of staff, or maintenance droid, to light the braziers in the formal exhibition salle. The shadows threw mythical, dancing shapes against the wood walls and transparisteel windows overlooking Coruscant. The riotous colors cast from four ignited lightsabers (sunset orange, forest green, floral pink) reflected against the wide, wall-length panes of transparisteel, bathing the night sky in an illusory aurora._

_And at the heart of it all was Athanyal: beautiful in the same way a lightsaber was beautiful, forcing her body through the torturous aerial calisthenics of_ Ataru’s _most technical two-handed cadence. Mesmerized, the audience watched as she leapt and spun through the air, avoiding the sweeping blades of her opponents with a grace that seemed unnatural. It was hard to rectify this battle hardened veteran with the young woman who was, not hours before, laughing the tournament off with a smile and a wink._

_(“I don’t need a tournament to distract me,” Athanyal had said in her conservatory, smiling that inscrutable smile of hers as she walked between rows of younglings and Padawans. “Besides, I think covering the unattributed Jedi epic “Sunrider” is a little more interesting than spending the day tired, hungry, and crammed in a too-small climate control tube.”_

_“So the rumor that you were eliminated six minutes after sunrise was true after all?” Cal offered, grin wolffish._

_Athanyal’s smile was diplomatic and saccharine as she retorted:_

_“Padawan Kestis, thank you for selflessly volunteering to date this text using Psychometry.”)_

_Floral pink sent forest green spinning. A Nautolan girl retreated to the spectators with a surprised, but pleased look on her face. Master Ki Adi Mundi tapped a sonorous charm and announced the defeat of the Padawan whose name was lost to the sea of memory. Three had become two as easily as breathing. Wide eyed, breath caught in his throat, Cal watched Athanyal circle her opponent. She bore her teeth in a snarl as_

high above their heads, Sorc Tormo crowed with delight as a particularly powerful Force push sent Cal spinning in one direction, lightsaber vanishing elsewhere. Athanyal, who had been knocked on her rear by Cal two moves earlier, rested on her elbows for a long moment before launching herself at her friend with the same, unrecognizing gaze and feral war cry.

Cal exhaled with the sort of exhaustion that sapped strength from his bones. Extending his hand outward, he rolled to his knees and felt the pommel of his lightsaber strike his palm with the same shock of memory as usual. Athanyal was caught off guard by this recovery; she quickly retreated, raising both lightsabers overhead as Cal attacked with uncharacteristic viciousness. He wore on her defenses, forced her back towards the center of the arena, in case Tormo decided to “enhance the viewing experience” with a herd of rampaging varadactyls.

In his gut, Cal knew the varadactyls would be the last straw, even as he felt the Force bolser his flagging body, his flagging mind, his

_twilight had fallen on the Temple again. The crowd in the formal dueling salle was much more sedate than those who had gathered for the Chakora Seva tourney two years before. Cal stood slightly apart from the other Padawans in the advanced dueling circuit. Fifteen and uncomfortable, he watched with a senior Padawan’s eye as the two highest ranking duelists amongst the younger Knights brought their demonstration into its third hour._

_Virin Qoshu had begun the seminar, demonstrating the handling and use of a saberstaff against Master Cin Drallig. In a sparring match that lasted all of an hour and a quarter, both Masters Qoshu and Drallig lectured, broke to assist older Padawans who were showing an interest in the ancient, ungainly lightsaber practice, and came out evenly matched. Cal had ignored most of the bout; Master Tapal had already begun his training with two lightsabers, and the idea of marrying himself to such an unwieldy weapon bothered him._

_(Though he did admit that the saberstaff had its charms.)_

_Then, Masters Qoshu and Drallig stepped back, respectfully bowing to each other in turn. From beneath his position on the overhead observation balcony, he felt a teasing energy reach out for Master Qoshu, and watched the imposing Kiffar woman smile in turn._

_To Cal’s surprise, a barefoot and_ very _dressed down Athanyal Hu emerged from the eaves beneath his feet, and approached a towering Anakin Skywalker, who was striding from his own hiding space on the opposite side of the observation balconies._

_Immediately, he came to attention, pushing back from his position near the wall to stand as close to the railing as possible._

_Stripped down to her belted and sleeveless under tunic and leggings, Athanyal meditatively spun two Silvian iron and Brijeshi leather pommels in hand as Master Skywalker continued his approach. He was equally bared to the cool air of the salle: chest bare, hands gloved as Athanyal’s were gloved, wearing the same tight black pants as his dueling partner._

_The gathered Padawans were unused to such public undress. All tittered, passed appreciative glances at either Master, found themselves blushing. Even Cal was not immune to the display before him as he took in the defined muscles and strong shoulders of Master Skywalker, and the graceful curves and refined movements of Athanyal Hu._

_(His flushed face was due to the heat of so many in the salle. Nothing more, nothing less.)_

_But where Athanyal held herself tightly, like a sand viper poised to strike, Master Skywalker let himself_ bleed _. There was a conflicted air about him, a miasma in the Force. Something dark and ugly flashed through the space, taking the shape of a togruta._

_Cal flinched bitterly. Everyone grieved for Ashoka Tano, but Master Skywalker’s grief was tinged with bitterness. Accusation._

She left _. snapped lightning-quick through the already charged atmosphere._

_(A sharp glare from Athanyal made the thought dissipate. But its sting still lingered.)_

_“The first lesson Master Qoshu ever taught me about_ Jar’Kai _was: “Using a second lightsaber with a dearth of overconfidence will not double your skill. It will only double your chances of cutting a hand off, or worse.”,” said Athanyal._

_The miasma around Master Skywalker lashed out with anger, a quiet_ How dare you _staining the air like tar, even though he laughed as uproariously as Master Qoshu and their audience did. Athanyal—returned from that long, sealed mission to Kijimi—did not laugh. Did not smile. She only began circling her opponent like a predator stalking prey._

_As if tied to her, Master Skywalker mirrored his much smaller opponent._

_His_ friend _._

_Cal watched, something akin to_ jealousy _burning in his gut, as the two old friends fell into an even older pattern: Athanyal rolled her neck, her shoulders, and Anakin did the same. Anakin flexed his fingers over the pommels of his lightsabers—one his, the other his lost Padawan's—and Athanyal mirrored as if the lightsabers in her hand were strangers. From this distance, Cal could only see their lips moving, conversing secretly with smug smiles and mock-scowls that led to unfettered laughter. The Angel of War and The Hero With No Fear mirrored each other (_ trusted _each other) so completely, their breathing seemed to synchronize until they were like one organism._

_“_ Jar’Kai _is many things,” said Athanyal, patience dripping from her voice like honey as she led this mesmerizing opening dance. “It is a method of dueling, like Master Qoshu’s beloved saberstaff is a method of lightsaber construction. It is an ancient technique, first referenced in the Qel-Droma Epics as the preferred form of the mythical Sith Lord, Exar Kun.”_

_Here, she paused. A curious expression overcame her face as she looked at her friend, who still matched her stride, her breathing, her heartbeat. For a brief moment, Cal felt Athanyal’s_ grief _and..._ fear? _in the Force. But as quickly as it appeared it was gone, like a summer storm on Naboo. She grinned—her first since Kijimi, since she had drawn herself inward and emerged changed—and Cal’s heart lifted when her eyes briefly found his_

“I guess it’s a good thing we’re still entertaining royalty,” Tormo sneered.“Maybe betting against our little Chume’da wasn’t a mistake after all.”

Exhausted, lightsaber pointed towards the ground, Cal paused his assault, taking a step back as Athanyal struck one of the massive domed elevators that deposited smaller, more aggressive wildlife into the gladiatorial pit.

With a cry of pain, she crumpled to the ground (mats?), lightsabers deactivating upon impact and spinning off into the shadows of the opposite elevator’s interior. Cal’s push had done more than stagger her as he had intended. Fueled by _fear_ , he had shoved out with what little strength he could spare, and more.

Because exhaustion was beginning to win.

Because Athanyal would not stop her constant, semi-feral assault.

Because Cal didn’t want to die.

(He didn’t want to kill Athanyal to live.)

Athanyal struck the elevator’s exterior several meters away at the same moment Cal retched, disgusted with himself. A youngling mistake, drilled into their heads when they were still too young to be trusted with training ’sabers, and he had made it so easily.

He gave in to _fear_.

Cal retreated from where he had vomited, drawing on the flagging remains of his strained connection to the Force. About fifty meters in front of him, Athanyal still lay crumpled and unmoving in the dust, too far away to confirm or assuage that ever-present, choking fear.

And above their heads, Sorc Tormo gloated about the royalty in their midst. The captured Chume’da.

Royalty was a term not often heard in this new Galactic Empire. Naboo’s queen was not the same who walked behind the casket of Padmè Naberrie, also called Amidala. This new queen was little more than an Imperial mouthpiece. Alderaan simmered quietly under the eye of the Emperor. Their queen was unwilling to risk Alderaan’s viceroy, prince, and senator while he remained in the Imperial capital, so close to the evil he fought to stop (and his friend had died fighting). Royal families from thousands of worlds had either gone to ground, slaved themselves to this new Imperial regime, or died with their people.

Royalty was a demonym now: a painful reminder of what had been lost.

What the Empire had stolen from them.

But the crime lord said royalty. Said Chume'da. He used a title that tugged on his precognition. Cal felt sunlight where there was none, felt the calm and serenity of the Temple surround him.

But the crime lord opened his mouth yet again, interrupted the recall of memory.

“I was tempted,” the towering Umbaran continues with a cold smile, “let me tell you, to hand Her Worship over to the Inquisitors, but that wouldn’t be a _warrior’s_ death. Besides...”

The crime lord let out a mournful sigh. Across the fifty meter gap, Cal felt his heart leap into his throat as Athanyal moaned pitifully. With an effort equal to the gravitational mass of a neutron star, he watched as the pommels of her lightsabers skittered brokenly across the ground (mats?). She tilted her head upward, snarling at the smiling Umbaran, who was staring down at her.

“She killed some of my best friends,” said Sorc Tormo. “That makes this personal.”

Cal took a more aggressive stance as Athanyal reversed her grip on either lightsaber, panting as if the air were thin, and crouched low in defense. The feral look remained, but the fear grew until Cal felt like he would choke on it

_midnight found the formal training salle in near darkness. Only the illumination of Coruscant and her moons entered the floor to ceiling panes of transparisteel, casting the interior in a ghostly glow. The interior, however, was lit only by the blazing lines of pink plasma trapped in bitter lockstep._

_Cal was mesmerized, though the sheer hurricane of_ feeling _—with Athanyal at its heart—made Cal dumb to the fact that this was not his memory._

_In near total darkness, The Angel of War practiced this sinuous, twining dance. By the light of her lightsabers, and Coruscant’s nightlife and satellites, Cal watched with a riveted gaze as she danced for an audience of one:_

_Herself._

_Slowly, Athanyal worked her way through the leaping waterfalls and violent rivers of_ Ataru’s _cadence. The delicate balance of the Force and the lighter footwork of_ Niman _allowed for a more relaxed practice. When this grew too little to control the rising winds of the hurricane within, The Angel of War flung herself into an absolutely punishing cadence of twists, fantastic aerials, and dangerous deactivations of one or both lightsabers. This was followed by either two outcomes: one, or both, tongues of pink fire erupting to life behind an opponent._

_This time, there was a third outcome._

_With an absolutely terrifying howl of fury, Athanyal threw herself into the air with the help of the Force. Terrified, Cal watched as two blades collided on an almost lazily activated blue blade. The choreography was so complete, Cal—beneath his terror—recognized the partner who had invited himself into this private dance of control._

_No._

_Not of control._

For _control._

_“ “Using a second lightsaber with a dearth of overconfidence will not double your skill. It will only double your chances of cutting a hand off, or worse.”,” said Master Skywalker, almost bored._

_Athanyal’s answer came delayed as a second tongue of blue plasma activated to her left. In a move that screamed of self-destruction, the recently Knighted Angel of War redirected her right blade as a stone redirects a river (or a coastline, a tsunami) to intercept the blade that came at her left flank_

Cal blinked in surprise as Athanyal leaned into this new, complicated bind. Their feet were hopelessly entangled, and Cal’s interception (his lightsaber at her left, his hand fastened tight around her right wrist) only helped to lock them in further.

Up close, he could see what half a decade could do to a Jedi in hiding, and his heart broke.

Athanyal was underweight. Her cheeks were hollow and her skin cracked from dehydration. Dark circles were beneath her eyes, from exhaustion, abuse, or a combination of the two. Old wounds laid the foundation for new wounds, a hellish scaffold that allowed for further destruction only. Even through the gloved hand that held fast to her birdlike wrist, Cal could feel five years worth of memories butting against his mental barriers, like pirates at a bulkhead: relentless and punishing.

The clothing that had caused such confusion only served to further perplex him, now that they were in the light. The top was a soiled thing, made of something impossibly soft, yet as durable as plasteel. Sleeveless, it was a color that might have been green in another life. A series of interlocking belts and fabric wraps cinched the waist and fabric of the tunic together. Cal was used to this—Athanyal had worn such garments as her Jedi robes once she was old enough—but the colors were new, as was the embroidery: little threads of pearl and silver that denoted either rank or status.

The pants were black, as were the soft wrapped boots (which were endeavoring to hook behind his ankles, trip him and send him to the mats (ground?) where he would meet his end) that went up her calves to her knees. Tattered, torn, and burned, they spoke of battle. Of betrayal.

Of _sorrow_.

Athanyal’s face twisted into a snarl. Through his palm, Cal could feel her determination take root, a mist overlaying a chemical foundation that made _fear_ her prime emotion.

Except when their dance dragged memories, kicking and screaming, to the surface.

And pain.

A plan was beginning to take root when Athanyal smashed their foreheads together in a blinding headbutt. Cal felt his hand loosen from around Athanyal’s bare wrists as he tried to stagger backwards, but she pressed this new advantage

_The expression of her partner would have been one of shock, had it been visible in the gloom. Athanyal deactivated both lightsabers, resistance against Anakin’s ignited blades disappearing between heartbeats. Only reflexes honed by the years saved the Brijeshi Jedi’s life._

_Wide eyed, mouth hanging agape, Cal watched as Athanyal somehow dropped to the salle’s forgiving floor. The blue blades that had posed such a threat a moment before intersected where his partner’s heart had been seconds prior. Cal felt the pull of the Force and watched as Athanyal curled her body between Anakin Skywalker’s spread legs and found her footing behind him. But he was there, bringing both blades behind his back to block the downward, forbidden_ Vaapad _cadence’s finish._

_“I came here to be alone,” said Athanyal brokenly. The push from her opponent only sent her stumbling backwards a handful of steps, enough to give them both some breathing room. “Please, it’s bad enough you saw me like that.”_

_“First,” Anakin continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “A Jedi must know their self.”_

_This time, it was the partner who set the tone, went on the attack_

Bile had long since settled in his throat. Sorc Tormo’s crazed commentary was beginning to destroy the very fabric of his nerves. His partner was limping, favoring her left side as she retreated, determination giving way to fear again, but this time Cal felt a weak thread of _Athanyal_ beneath this feral, traumatized woman. Of sanity.

Good, Cal thought, pressing his advantage and exerting this weakness not just in his partner, but in _Jar’Kai_ itself.

That was when he executed his plan.

Again and again Athanyal brought her lightsabers up in defense, circling through each memory of each cadence. Again and again Cal decimated her defenses, throwing as much weight behind the blows as he could. Athanyal staggered under the barrage, arms trembling with the effort to repel his attacks. Slowly—to the roaring pleasure of the crowds above—Cal drove her back, until Athanyal was pressed against the domed elevator

_Athanyal..._

terror and relief warring in her eyes as

_wait… I know you_

Cal used the very last dregs of his strength to curl his hand toward himself

_You do_

The relief in Athanyal’s eyes was what he saw—what he felt—as the Force pulled instead of pushed

_… ca—_

and Cal cradled the back of her head with his bare hand as his lightsaber ran her through.

The air left Athanyal’s lungs as if she had been punched. Cal felt it in counterpoint: a burning polestar of agony that ignited low, to the left and beside his belly button. He held her tight, fingers running through dirty blue hair, tears running clean lines through the dirt and blood on his freckled cheeks. Deactivating his lightsaber, Cal lowered them both first to his knees, then to his rear, his hold on Athanyal gentle as he guided her across his lap.

Surprise robbed her of any remaining strength. Taking his hand away from the back of her head, Cal drew his wards tight around his mind and moved sweaty hair from Athanyal’s face. Even as armored as he could be, Cal still felt the change wrought by that planet that hurt her so. The horrors of the past five years barking and clawing at his holocron-shielded memories.

As a youngling, he remembered first touching Athanyal’s mind. It wasn’t like touching Master Tapal’s, or his friends’ minds. She had kneeled in that beautiful conservatory, took his hands in hers, and smiled crookedly as she traced the lines of his palms. It was like diving into a bath-warm sea as smooth as Chandrilan silk. He had marveled at what he saw—what he _felt_ —and the mastery of her mental wards astounded him. They were ancient, unyielding things, like the monastery stones on Ahch-To.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.

Now, her mind was a maelstrom of the past that she was made to relive, and those ancient masonry walls in her mind were broken and torn. The memories he grasped were little more than disjointed fragments, nightmares of both past and imperfect future. Wincing the fragments away, Cal gently stroked the pronounced plane of Athanyal’s bruised cheek, where the remains of a substance as blue as her hair lingered. Gaze soft, he smiled as cloudy familiarity finally, _finally_ , filled her sunset eyes.

“A dream,” Athanyal whispered, as if she didn’t dare imagine this. Tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes began to fall as Cal felt a thready bloom of _hope_ warm his fingertips. A shaky finger rose to touch his cheek, but she refrained, clinging to the faint memory of sanctity between psychometrics. “This is a dream.”

Cal held her hand in his, granting her permission to touch. To know it was him. Her hand was cold—she was always so cold—but _alive_. Her eyes widened, and her bottom lip trembled. The sea of her mind began to calm as she reached out. Felt.

“Not a dream.” Her voice was hoarse. Tears fell freely as she let herself believe, even as she began to fall back into that darkness.

“Cal—”

“Rest, Master Hu,” Cal murmured. “Next time you wake up, you’ll be somewhere safe.”

Athanyal contented herself with that, eyes nothing more than hooded, pink slits. The brief moment of sanity was gone. Beedee hopped off his shoulder to putter beside Athanyal’s supine body. He warbled an apology in Binary, and scanned the wound in her belly. He tilted his head up at Cal, and trilled.

_We need to get out of here_.

“I know, buddy. Trust me, I know.”

High above their heads, their crime lord kidnapper finally realized that Jedi had not slain Jedi. Incensed, Tormo shrieked orders to his underlings; Cal let out a particularly rude curse in Brijeshii and looked around. There were no easy exits, and with Athanyal trapped in this strange fugue state between past and imperfect future, she would not be at his side.

So Cal cursed. He cursed the Force. He cursed himself. He cursed Greez and the gambling debts that had trapped Cal within this hellmouth. And last (but certainly not least), he cursed whatever strange and magical event that brought Athanyal Hu to this stars-forsaken place.

A sound penetrated the air, somewhere between an engine warming up and a yowling loth-cat. The part of Cal not focused on maintaining his wards and body with the Force blessed him with a snapshot of the future.

_Damn_ , he thought, gently moving Athanyal to the ground, pressed against the warm metal of the elevator. _Cere, Greez, what’s taking you guys so long?_

With Athanyal tucked out of harm's way, Cal called the two abandoned pommels to his hand. The lightsabers were impeccable works of craftsmanship, leather supple and metal burnished to a warm, rosy glow. They were small in his hands. Elegant.

Regal.

As much as he would love to leave them at their master's side, he didn’t know how quickly they would need to make a Virin Qoshu-approved “strategic retreat” (or if Athanyal would try skewering him while his back was turned). The risk of their loss is too great, and there was only enough room on his belt for one lightsaber.

“Well,” Cal said quietly, more to himself than his deaf audience as he gave either pommel an experimental turn. “Good thing Master Tapal made me attend that Jar’Kai seminar of yours…”

Somewhere high above his head, he heard the roar of a GAR-issued jet pack. Time crawled to a halt. A half-second before he saw his enemy, Athanyal Hu’s lightsabers came to life in his hands. The bright magenta plasma burned his retinas briefly, left afterimages that took seconds to blink away. But he had risen them just in time. The bounty hunter who had kidnapped him fired a devastating shot that would have bored through his forehead had he not been quick enough.

“Watch Athanyal!” Cal shouted back at Beedee as the crowd roared its bloodlust. He didn’t pause to see if his trusted friend heard him.

The bounty hunter fired again, hovering just out of reach. Each volley, Cal reflected back with lightsabers that felt like an extension of himself. Like ghosts, he could feel Athanyal’s light hands guiding his, holding his. The black clad Mandalorian aimed his fist in the young Padawan’s direction. Cal had just enough time to roll beneath the sprouted tongue of flame before it struck him.

Cal remembered storming a Separatist stronghold on Jabiim. Seeing the enemy’s cognizant droid general cut down clones and Jedi with stolen lightsabers. That had been jarring.

This, somehow, was worse.

Athanyal’s presence was weak.Thready. But it was _there_ , stronger than it had been when she had first launched herself from the bowels of her prison. He kept an eye trained on her, and one on his enemy, deflecting blaster bolts aimed for his old friend back at the bounty hunter who fired them.

He felt it a moment before he saw it, a subdued blaze in the Force that sang of fierce protection and latent anger. Cal felt his heart leap in his chest.

_Cere_.

Glancing up, Cal gathered the weak threads of the Force that still answered to him. With a cry of frustration, he flung the bounty hunter as hard as he could, into the waiting keel of the _Stinger Mantis_ as it sliced through the air like a fin.

“What the…” sputtered Sorc Tormo. “It’s the _Mantis_! Blast that ship!”

This was their chance. Heart in his throat, Cal ducked as the wake from the _Mantis’s_ engines reached him, hurrying back where he left Athanyal. Beedee chirped, worried, as he retook his place on Cal’s back. To his growing concern, Athanyal did not register his presence. When he touched her face, it burned.

Cal felt for Cere in the Force, felt her flicker.

_Lower the ramp and dust off the med kit,_ he said. _I have a friend who needs help._

Cere’s reply was a watercolor smear of emotion: shock, elation, latent anger at Greez, and concern. Satisfied that he had been heard, Cal crouched, wrapped an arm around Athanyal’s back and one under her knees.

“Come on, Master Hu,” Cal grunted as he took her in his arms. Stars, she was light. “Time to leave this uncivilized affair.”

Cal hoped that would get a reaction from her. Hoped it would stir a warm laugh and a story. _Oh Cal. You haven’t seen uncivilized. Have I told you about my time on Mandalore?_

Centering himself, Cal ran for the lowered ramp of the Mantis, the Force propelling his steps until it felt like he was flying. Around him, plasma scorched the rock of the arena’s ground, turned the sand to glass. He saw Cere clearly, now: leaning out of the Mantis’s forward hatch, blaster in hand as she covered her apprentice.

Behind him, the lord of the Haxion Brood bellowed:

“You can’t escape me! I’ll hunt you across the galaxy if I have to!”

Chase me then, Cal thought as he leapt onto the loading ramp of the _Mantis_ , beside Cere. She looked startled for a moment, taking in battered Cal and his equally battered companion. For a moment, Cal thought he saw recognition flash in Cere's eyes, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

“What—Cal?” Cere shouted over the deafening roar of the _Mantis's_ engines. “Never mind. Get her on the sleep couch in the spare room and strap yourselves in. We’ll handle everything else when we’re in hyperspace.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.


End file.
